


Anything

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Rejection, Sacrifice, Same-Sex Marriage, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: A tale told in three parts, in which Jaskier must make a devastating choice to save Geralt's life. In the aftermath of it, Geralt struggles to understand why the bard cares so much.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 166
Kudos: 1071





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Anything](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244627) by [j_n_97](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_n_97/pseuds/j_n_97)



Geralt had been gone for far too long, and Jaskier could not spend another moment idling at camp, waiting for him.

He left his lute behind, strapped the dagger that Geralt had taught him to use to his belt, and bravely stalked off in the direction the Witcher had gone days before. He was hunting a vampire - he'd mentioned the monster was great, or superior, or _something_. All Jaskier knew was that it meant a monster that lived in a house - which he'd thought a terribly novel concept - and a hunt he was not allowed to join.

Too dangerous.

And Geralt was late in returning.

He walked for hours, foolishly hoping he'd stumble upon a sign reading, _this way to the vampire_ , or perhaps a flock of helpful guiding bats, but instead his feet crunched against the gravel of a path. It lead to a wrought iron gate woven with ivy, beyond which a manor of pale stone and carefully curated gardens sprawled invitingly. _In the middle of the forest._

Jaskier stared like a simpleton before he remembered the reason he'd come. He steeled his shaky resolve and shouldered the gate open. He expected it to squeal with rusty protest, but it was oiled and silent.

He didn't know how to approach a vampire in a nice house. Should he sneak around the back? Should he try a window? Ultimately, he found his answer when he tried the front door, and it swung open invitingly.

Shivering, hand on his dagger hilt, he stood on the threshold. "Hello?" He winced at the crack in his voice, and _also_ at the fact he was politely announcing his arrival to a monster.

He was met with silence.

Trying to keep his footfalls silent - which was daft, considering his earlier greeting - he crept down the candlelit hall, attempting not to admire the tasteful and expensive decor. He rounded the corner, into the parlour - and there lay Geralt, draped listlessly on a chaise lounge.

Jaskier immediately stiffened, his heart plummeting to his toes. No, Gods, _no_. He wasn't dead. He _couldn't_ die. Tears leapt into his eyes as his body afforded him a fresh rush of adrenaline, and then he was racing to the Witcher's side.

"Geralt?" He begged, touching the pale man's face. Still warm. Trembling, he felt for a pulse. "Geralt. Geralt! Gods, _please_..." For the longest time he couldn't source one - and then he felt it. The slow rhythm of life, made more sluggish by his mutation and - Jaskier guessed - whatever had transpired in the house.

"It's okay," He whispered, "I'm here, I've _got_ you, I'll-- I'll get you out." Wrapping both arms around the prone man, he tugged, and managed to move Geralt's body half-off the lounge. _Well_ , he thought, panting, _it's a start._

"Whatever are you doing with my new pet?" A voice rang across the room, bright with amusement, and Jaskier panicked, dropping Geralt's weight. One of the large man's arms draped off the chaise.

"He's n-not, not a pet, thank you," Jaskier addressed the feminine figure in the shadows, fumbling for his dagger. He tried to remember Geralt's lessons.

He dropped the damn thing on the floor.

"Oh, calm yourself." The vampire purred, slinking closer. She was beautiful, Jaskier supposed, if one was into deathly pale skin, red eyes, and perfectly styled dark hair. "I've fed from him. I'm not hungry for you."

"Oh." Jaskier blinked, not expecting comfort from a monster, or civility. "Well, uh. Thank you, Lady...?"

She laughed when he asked her name like a court gentleman. "You are _so_ unlike your companion. He could use some of your manners."

"Don't I know it!" Jaskier snorted, before he realised he was bonding with this creature. "Er, but I am... rather _fond_ of him, you see. Would it be alright if I took him home?"

"Hmm," She considered, regarding the bard, "You _must_ be fond of him, to come to my estate alone, with a _steel_ dagger. Does the Witcher not care enough to give you a silver one?" Her lips curved, and Jaskier shivered at the sight of her fangs. "Perhaps he's not as _fond_ of you. Why save him?"

"He is," Jaskier snapped, too quickly, "We're saving coin for a proper silver dagger. Geralt says it needs to be engraved, for strength, and..." The words sounded like excuses, and he curled his fists. "He's my _friend_."

"Ah, a _friend_." Absently, she stroked a hand over the wood of the chaise's back. "Unfortunately, he's my pet now. Do you know how rare it is to find such a delicious drink? He'll replenish again and again. He's due to rouse soon, actually."

Jaskier swallowed thickly. "A-a deal, then. You're a lovely, intelligent, ah... _woman_ ," He tried his best to grin winningly, "Surely I can trade for his life?"

"Have you any fae dust?" She asked.

"Nn _no_ ," Jaskier frowned, "But I'll find some!"

Her laughter was sharp. "No you won't. If you can't hold a child's training dagger, you won't outsmart fae."

He bristled, tried to think of what he _did_ have, and turned his desperate gaze upon the vampire. His earnest eyes were endlessly blue, and even undead as she was, she found him quite charming.

"Blood," He breathed, "You like blood. Take mine instead."

She raised one elegant eyebrow at him. "I'd drain you in seconds, mortal. He will bleed for months."

"But I taste better than him." Jaskier guessed, "Human blood."

Her hum confirmed his suspicion, and she tapped her glassy fingernails on the wood. "No," She finally decided, "I don't like the trade."

"There must be _something!_ " Jaskier burst, clasping his hands. "Please. I know he offended you - believe me, he's _wonderful_ at doing that - but surely I can make amends."

The crimson of her eyes was calculating, and she thought for a moment, before slinking from the room. When she returned, she was holding a small conch shell. "Do you know what this is?"

"A, uh, a seashell." Jaskier sounded foolish. On the chaise, he felt Geralt stir, just a little.

"Siren made, actually. I've had it for decades and have never filled it. But you have the sweetest cadence..." She tilted her head. "I will trade his freedom, for your voice."

"You-- my what? You wish for me to sing?" _Well_ , he thought, that was something he could offer!

"No." Her sigh implied her consideration of his intellect, "Once you whisper into this shell, it draws the words from your tongue forever. You'll not speak again. But the shell glows _such_ a pretty pink - it really makes for a lovely ornament."

Jaskier blanched. He heard Geralt's low groan. The passage of time narrowed down as he considered the deal. He had nothing else to bargain with. She had no quarrel with him - he could simply _leave_ Geralt. His eyes flicked to the blunt steel dagger on the floor, and for a moment, he thought about running.

But then he thought about Geralt. Geralt, who had never known steady kindness in his lonely life. Who considered himself monstrous, when he _spared_ monsters and saved humans with finesse, only asking coin for his time. Geralt, who watched the camp when they slept, who pulled Jaskier out of the grasp of ghouls, who--

\--who he _loved_.

Geralt, who would never hear Jaskier speak those words, because he knew the offer was expiring quickly, and he had to choose.

So he did.

His features twisted with sorrow as he leaned into the shell, and whispered.

" _For you. Only you._ "

He felt something cold claw his throat, and he gasped, watching as strands of light filtered from his parted lips - his words, his songs, his poetry - and curled into the curve of the shell, glowing brightly. Tears stung his eyes in the wake of it, but his sobbing was soundless.

"Ah, a strong voice." The monster purred, "Delightful." She smiled again, and Jaskier mouthed something uselessly, before frantically pointing at Geralt. "Hm? Oh, he'll awaken in ten minutes or so. Enough time for me to leave. I don't care for a repeat performance of our meeting, and you've nothing else to trade."

She winked like it was a joke - to her, Jaskier supposed it was - and began to stride from the room.

"I hope you've told him - your _friend_ \- how you _really_ feel. I imagine it'll be more difficult to express from now."

Her laughter rung through the house as Jaskier slumped, cradling his head in his hands. There was nothing to do but wait for Geralt to awaken.

\------------------

"I can't believe you were so _stupid_." Geralt seethed, for the third time. They were on the road again; as ever, Jaskier walked beside Roach. "Making deals with monsters, and for what? I would have outsmarted her. I didn't need you, Jaskier."

_I need you,_ Jaskier tried to say with his eyes, but Geralt wasn't looking.

"Have you any idea how _long_ it took to find her? And now I may never again, because she knows my scent too well. Fates _save me_ , Jaskier! What possessed you?"

_You did,_ Jaskier thought, but he raised his shoulders in a small shrug instead.

"No, actually, I do want to know. Write it down in your insipid pad." Geralt growled, slowing Roach. Jaskier lowered his gaze, and withdrew a wad of parchment from his satchel, along with a piece of charcoal.

_Because I love you_ , he wanted to write.

_Because I can't lose you_ , his fingers itched.

_Because I'd give anything for you,_ his hand trembled.

Instead, he wrote, _'I couldn't think of a better plan'._ Slowly, he turned the paper so Geralt could read. The Witcher snorted.

"Couldn't think. Sounds like you, Jaskier." He eased Roach into a walk again. "Least it's quiet for a change."

And it was. Quiet enough to hear the trickle of a nearby river. Quiet enough to hear the crunch of road dirt beneath shoes and hooves.

Quiet enough to hear the birds singing.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier becomes less and less himself with the passage of time. Geralt hates it, but he doesn't know what to do.

Jaskier was becoming less and less himself with every day that passed, and Geralt had no idea what to do about it.

He had very little memory around leaving the vampire’s house. He knew that Jaskier had mostly dragged him out, and had let him use him as a crutch on the way back to camp, where he’d recovered fully. He remembered unloading his frustration at the failed hunt upon the bard, furious that he’d lost his mark. The battle had been extraordinarily difficult, and she’d bled him for days. Still, though, he _would_ have found a way to best her.

Wouldn’t he?

If he was honest with himself, he knew that short of another Witcher’s help or a lapse in the vampire’s judgement, he would have been her blood-bag until his heart eventually gave out. He didn’t understand the specifics of how Jaskier had freed him – he only knew that the bard could no longer speak. _‘I traded my voice, for you’,_ was what he’d scrawled on parchment after Geralt had taken him by the shoulders, shaking him, demanding he speak.

He’d told Jaskier that he’d made a fool’s trade, and that he’d _enjoy_ the quiet. He had presumed it was a spell, a temporary sacrifice. Most curses didn’t last that long, or they had cures. Jaskier’s eyes were hauntingly dull as the Witcher dismissed him, rolling up his blankets, checking over Roach’s tack. When he heard the scrawl of charcoal on parchment again, he’d held up a hand.

“ _Spare_ me your reasoning, Jaskier. You made your own bed.”

Even when he couldn’t speak, Geralt wanted him to shut up. Jaskier stared at the beginning of the sentence he’d written, _‘I don’t know how to get—’,_ and slowly tore the parchment from the pad, crumpling it in his hand. If he was going to get his voice back, it seemed he’d have to do it alone.

On their way to a new town to restock, Geralt had to admit he thoroughly enjoyed the peace. He liked Jaskier’s company – he always had – but the constant stream of questions, the stories, the _questions about his stories_ , fates _save_ him. Sometimes he couldn’t stand it. But now, there was quiet.

Now, Jaskier simply followed him, head mostly down. After being rebuked, he didn’t even withdraw the pad to write, unless Geralt asked him to.

The first night they camped, Jaskier barely ate, and retired to his bedroll before the sun had even set. He slept all night, although he started awake once or twice, his heart-rate high. _Nightmares_. Geralt wondered what they were about.

The second night, Geralt watched as the bard strummed his lute, working on chords, inking notes down in a journal. It was second nature for him to try to sing, but every time he opened his mouth, he remembered. The sadness that blazed in his pale gaze made something deep within Geralt stir, something uncomfortable. After a frustrated hour of working, Jaskier put the music away, and took to bed early again.

When they neared the next city, they passed a ruin. Jaskier’s eyes widened, and Geralt _knew_ he wanted to ask questions about it. What had it been? Why was it in disrepair? Did he know anything? For a moment, the bard he knew shone through as he reached for the pad, but then he paused. Whatever light had been there faded again, and whatever question he was going to scrawl was never asked.

Geralt told himself it was good. Less distractions. They could move faster. But the thing that gnawed at his stomach sunk its claws in a little deeper.

—————

“Jaskier, pass the ale.” He asked at camp, and the bard did as he was bid. After a moment, he picked up the pad, and wrote one word carefully, before showing it to the Witcher.

“’ _Julian’_?” Geralt read, “Who’s Julian?”

Jaskier pointed at himself.

“What, you’re changing your name now?” The Witcher was visibly confused.

Jaskier shook his head, and began to write. When he was done, he showed Geralt the paper:

‘ _My birth name is Julian Pankratz’._

Geralt blinked. “So ‘Jaskier’ is a nickname?”

Again, he shook his head. He wrote out two words:

‘ _Bard name.’_

“So why are you ‘Julian’ now?” The malignant thing within him turned, aching. He knew the answer, but some part of him didn’t want to see it. Still, he kept his features impassive as Jaskier wrote again, this time in a wobbly hand:

‘ _Not a bard anymore.’_

Geralt snorted. “And whose fault is _that?_ Your voice will return. Curses don’t last.”

Jaskier’s hand hovered over the parchment, and Geralt saw the debate in his eyes. He wanted to ask what he was fighting over, what he wasn’t telling him, but that would just encourage more questions. And he _liked_ the silence. _Didn’t he?_

Jaskier merely nodded, and placed the pad to the side. He picked up his lute, ran his fingers over the strings, and frowned, placing it back down with care. No composing that night, Geralt guessed.

Again, Jaskier ate little, offering Geralt his left-overs, rubbing his stomach to express that he was full. Ever-hungry, the Witcher consumed, but he heard the turn of the bard’s hollow insides.

—————

“You ain’t got enough for two rooms for two nights. You ain’t got enough for _one_ room for two nights.” The innkeeper scoffed, when Geralt made his request, “Not with that horse boarding, too.”

Around now would be when Jaskier would interject, smooth-talking, promising to play and draw crowds and drink the bar dry. But his companion simply stood helplessly beside him, patting down his own pockets, hoping to turn up more coin. Geralt growled.

“Fine.” He hissed, “Have you any threats nearby? I can pay my debt off in work.”

“Safe and sound, we are.” The innkeeper boasted, “No monsters ‘round these parts. No need for a _Witcher._ ”

Geralt rumbled lowly again, and went to turn away, until Jaskier unstrapped the lute from his back. He stared at the instrument for a moment – the first treasure from the start of his adventures, the vessel he channelled his creativity into – and sighed soundlessly. Slowly, he offered it to the innkeep.

“Jaskier, what—” Geralt snapped, and Jaskier glanced at him side-long, frowning.

“This is quite fine.” The innkeeper enthused, “Gold inlaid! Are those _elvish carvings?_ Well, I’ll be. This will make payment enough. Only got one room, though.”

“Wait, _no,_ ” Geralt protested, turning to Jaskier, “That’s Filavandrel’s lute, Jaskier. You _love_ it. We don’t need to stay here.”

Jaskier pulled out the parchment. Geralt thought he was going to write something about having a plan, or buying it back later, but instead he just turned to the page from a few nights before:

‘ _Not a bard anymore’._

And then he flipped the papers again, tapping the name:

‘ _Julian’._

Geralt felt an unfamiliar wave of nausea grip his stomach, his features ablaze, but Jaskier simply took up the offered key from the greedy keeper, and began to trudge up the stairs.

“Take _care_ of that lute.” Geralt snarled, lowly, not wanting Jaskier to hear, “Because I’ll be buying it back.”

He followed his silent companion.

—————

Of _course_ there was one bed, Jaskier despaired, and of _course_ it was a single bed.

His entire body ached from the hard weeks of travel, and he wanted nothing more than to sink selfishly into the mattress and sleep for two solid days. He _should,_ he thought, bitterly. He’d been the one to do the work at the last hunt – even failed at it was.

But then Geralt entered the room, looking just as fatigued, and Jaskier felt his heart ache with the madness of love. The floor was fine enough. At least there weren’t any spiders on it, and there was a rug in front of the fireplace. The eternal optimist within him tried to reason that a rug was _exactly_ the same as a mattress, if he thought about it.

“I suppose now we draw straws, or fight, hmm?” Geralt grouched. Jaskier withdrew his parchment, and the Witcher braced himself for an argument.

‘ _The rug looks soft. You take the bed.’_

“Jask—Julian— _fuck_ , that sounds so weird. Aren’t you even going to… tell me I’ll just _break_ the bed with my arse, or… I don’t know, beg an arm wrestle?” Geralt’s shock was evident in his voice. Jaskier merely shrugged.

‘ _You are tired.’_

“So are you…” Geralt trailed off, and then wondered _why_ he was fighting. The bed looked nice. He stared at it as Jaskier settled onto the rug, arranging his things. Quietly, he sat down on the mattress and watched the other man start a fire.

He was balling up parchment for kindling; scrawled chords that he’d crossed out over and over again in frustration. As he struck the flint, Geralt searched desperately for something to say. Some way to lighten the other man’s spirits.

“I… never told you about the battle with the vampire.” He mumbled. Jaskier paused, turning, and there he was again; the bright blue of his eyes, the curiousness of his mouth. Geralt _never_ gave up information willingly. As the fire began to catch, he thought about the fight, and about how to describe it. Jaskier hated it when he was factual. He liked details.

So Geralt did his best. He tried to recall how the manor had smelled when he entered it. How she’d greeted him like an old friend. How he’d accused her of the many murders that pointed a trail to her, and how she could not be trusted to live peacefully amongst humans. The clashing of their weapons, the savagery of her bite. Begrudgingly, he even detailed how she’d bested him, disarming him and rendering him unconscious long enough to drain him until he was too sluggish to move.

When he was done, he expected to look up and see Jaskier taking furious notes with his clever quill, scratching away in delight. Instead, he was met with two tear-filled eyes, wet tracks marching in silence down the other man’s cheeks. The sight made Geralt hurt; he felt it in his heart, and he didn’t know why.

“I thought you _liked_ stories.” Geralt snapped, annoyed that his effort at cheering the bard had backfired.

Jaskier _loved_ stories. He’d never heard Geralt tell one. It was awkward, and lacked a certain flow, but it was delightful.

And he couldn’t make it into a song anymore.

He couldn’t tell Geralt’s story like it _should_ be told anymore.

The realisation left him breathless. He hadn’t just traded his voice – he’d traded Geralt, too. What use did he have for a mute bard? No, _not a bard anymore,_ he remembered his own writing. Just a… Julian. A plain, quiet human, without magic or sword skill or knowledge of alchemy. Why would Geralt keep him around, now?

The right thing to do would be to leave him. To go back to Lettenhove and hope that the memories of his adventures would be enough to keep him content for the rest of his years. He could entrust another bard with Geralt’s tale.

But he didn’t _want_ to leave. _Selfish,_ he thought of himself. The thought of Geralt walking the world with someone else—

“I don’t _understand._ ” Geralt’s voice lowered, and Jaskier winced. He wanted to admit the predicament. But he didn’t want Geralt to yell at him anymore; he didn’t want to hear about how he’d made this choice. About how he should suffer it alone.

‘ _I liked the story’_ , He wrote, and held it up.

“Then why are you crying?” Geralt sounded desperate. Jaskier shook his head, and raised his shoulders, hoping it would be enough for the Witcher to dismiss him. But he still stared, those cat-gold eyes sharp.

Jaskier took a few slow, calming breaths. And then he wrote.

‘ _I hope someone will do it justice’._

Realisation dawned upon Geralt like the slow creep of night-frost in winter. Jaskier—Julian? Damn it, _Jaskier_ , could not sing. What use was a story to him, right now? “ _You’ll_ do it justice.” Geralt snarled, “When your voice returns, you’ll sing it. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Jaskier flinched. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to write the truth.

‘ _Voice not coming back. Vampire has it. Put it in a shell. Did not want my blood. Had nothing else to trade.’_ He wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of charcoal there.

Geralt felt like he’d been run through with a blade of ice. He knew about the siren’s conch, and knew there was little that could be done. This was no curse. And more than that, Jaskier had traded _everything he had_ to save him. His livelihood. His passion. After first offering his very blood, he’d given his voice away to save Geralt’s miserable mutant life. 

Jaskier was still writing in the lapse of Geralt’s stunned silence. He held up the new words.

‘ _Know this makes me even less of a good travel companion. Am sorry. Will not journey with you from here. Will return to Lettenhove.’_

“Why would—” Geralt flustered, unable to fathom what was happening, what had happened, “Lettenhove? That’s across the continent! And why, _why_ would…” His voice caught, “Why did you _do it,_ Jaskier?”

He watched the other man cringe, and curl further in on himself. He felt the strangest urge to go to him, to wrap his arms around him, to… to _comfort him_. Damn it, why would he do that? He was despicable, a monster, unable to love – so why…

Why did everything suddenly hurt?

Why had Jaskier not just left him to die?

Jaskier _tried_ to write the three words etched on his heart. He really did. But he was terrified that Geralt would laugh, or scoff, or worse – say nothing at all. He’d rather hear about how stupid he was, how he’d made the choice himself, and how it was his problem to sort out. Admitting that he’d given everything up for a man that thought him a fool was one thing; admitting he’d done it because he loved that man with every fibre in his quiet, mortal being was another.

Slowly, he turned the pages of the parchment, to words he had already written.

‘ _I couldn’t think of a better plan’._

He waited for it – to be told he _didn’t_ think, and that was his problem. To be called an imbecile. Numbly, he stared across at Geralt – near him, but not at him. He couldn’t see those gorgeous golden eyes. He was frightened they’d burn him to ash.

“I have a plan,” Geralt said instead, softly, “I think I know a way to get your voice back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @witchernonsense for drabble/general ramblings.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Geralt has a plan to restore Jaskier's voice. Things slowly start to make sense to him.

“Ah!” The innkeeper enthused as Geralt descended the stairs, followed closely by Jaskier, “Did you gentlemen sleep well?” Discordantly, he strummed the lute hung from his neck. Jaskier winced.

Geralt leaned across the bar and punched the man solidly in the face, lifting the instrument in almost the same motion. “Greedy fucker.” Was all he said, as he thrust the precious possession at Jaskier, who grabbed at it with shaky hands. He peeked over the counter to see if the keeper was still breathing, before a smirk pulled at his lips, and he followed the Witcher outside.

It was the second nicest thing Geralt had done for him recently.

The first had been explaining his plan to return Jaskier’s voice.

“The vampire, I hunted her for decades. I may never find her again. That shell is as good as gone.” Geralt had sighed, watching Jaskier pull his legs up and rest his chin on his knees, looking resigned. “However – I know of a power that can restore what you had. It’s something I’ve been… sitting on, for a time. And I’m not completely _sure_ it’s there, but,” Gods, it was strange talking without interruption, “There’s a djinn in a lake, not too far from here.”

Jaskier’s charcoal took to the parchment, a flurry of movement, and Geralt felt warm at seeing the bard’s excitement for the first time in weeks. He didn’t care that there were questions to answer.

He _wanted_ to answer them.

‘ _Djinn? Wishes? Like the fairy tales? How? Will it work?’_

Jaskier’s handwriting suffered from the speed it had been scrawled with, but the hope in his tired sea-side eyes softened the writhing thing that coiled in Geralt’s chest.

“Yes, wishes. Three. We have to find the vessel and release the djinn.”

Jaskier rocked in place for a moment. His hand trembled over the parchment, before he wrote again. Geralt expected more questions, more specifics, but instead, Jaskier revealed two words:

‘ _Thank you!’_

Why did that _sting_ him, Geralt wondered? He didn’t need to be thanked. He was just helping a friend who had helped him, wasn’t he? Wasn’t it the right thing to do? Confused, he blinked at the statement, before grunting. “Sleep. We leave tomorrow.”

And now they were back on the road, and Jaskier had his beloved lute – he was fiddling endlessly with it, eyes shining – and more importantly, he had _hope._

The quiet of travel wasn’t as nice as it had been before. Geralt was calmed by Jaskier’s cheer, but he hated the echo of the world around them; the monotonous sound of Roach’s hooves, the distant rustling of leaves, the trickle of a river somewhere. His gaze fell upon a few wild lilacs growing at the side of the road, and he remembered Jaskier picking them once, insisting the colour would compliment Geralt’s silver-white hair, tucking a stem into his ponytail. At the time, Geralt had waved the bard off – although he left the flower in his hair for the whole day. Now that it was silent, he thought about the small gesture, and wondered.

It was haunting him, still. The _why_ of it all. Why Jaskier would risk everything. Did he do such reckless things for _all_ his friends? Perhaps he had absolutely no self-preservation, and presumed Geralt would sort the mess out later.

But that hadn’t been the case, had it? Jaskier had offered to leave, to spend his days as a mute, to give up the wide, wonderful world that he still desperately wanted to explore. Geralt saw the insatiable wanderlust in the other man’s eyes. He’d practically had to _torture_ the truth from the bard – that it wasn’t a curse, or a temporary trade.

_Why_ had Jaskier not told him?

Geralt thought back to their camping trek. To the first day after the failed hunt. He remembered telling Jaskier to spare him, to keep his charcoal-thoughts to himself. And Jaskier had obeyed the selfish command. Instead of asking for Geralt’s help, he’d just… _given up_.

Why? _Why?_ Frustrated, Geralt tried to recall other small details, past journeys and treks together. The way Jaskier would make sure the Witcher ate first, because he ‘needed his strength, he was a big growing boy’. The way he’d sing himself hoarse in a town to earn enough coin for their meals and lodgings when they were skint. The way he cleaned Geralt’s armour, or gave up his dried fruit for Roach, or brushed out the Witcher’s hair when it was getting ratty, or fuck fuck _fuck_ _ **fuck**_.

Humans were frightened of him. Not Jaskier. Humans called him names and slandered him. Jaskier defended him. Humans refused him entry into inns, or decent meals. Jaskier laid out coin or threats until they cowed.

Geralt had so few friends. The ones he did have, he saw sparsely. And they were of his guild; they didn’t treat him like Jaskier did. He was brought out of his reverie by the bard, who was tapping his pad with a question:

‘ _Are you hungry? Took a wedge of cheese from the bar.’_

Gods, all this time, Jaskier had given and cared and smiled when Geralt had taken and growled and sneered. But he’d never asked for anything. Only for Geralt’s story.

_Why?_

“I’m fine,” Geralt rumbled, “You should eat, though. I felt getting your lute back was more important than breakfast.”

Jaskier’s step faltered, and when Geralt glanced at him, he was beaming. He unwrapped the food, and began to munch.

And still, he insisted that Geralt take half.

—————

At their first camp, Geralt hoped that if he stared at Jaskier long enough, he’d be able to read the bard’s mind. So far, he’d been doing it for an hour, and he’d had no revelations. Jaskier was fine-tuning the strings of his lute, fussing, no doubt having an internal tirade about the innkeeper’s poor treatment of the instrument. Aside from the occasional strummed chord and the pop of the fire blazing between them, it was quiet.

Geralt found himself admiring Jaskier’s fingers as he worked the strings. Slender, strong; he moved them with purpose. Everything about Jaskier was purposeful, he decided; the way he dressed, his posture, his colourful use of alliteration when he was insulting someone. The faint ache returned inside of him. He missed Jaskier’s bickering.

Fuck, he realised, he missed _everything_ to do with Jaskier’s voice.

The questions, the tunes, the snide remarks, the innuendo. The lilt of his tone when he got excited about something. The trill of his song as he leaned into the vibrato of a note.

“Even _if_ the djinn isn’t there,” Geralt found himself rushing to speak, unprompted, to fill the silence, “We’ll find another way. I promise.”

Jaskier looked up from his lute, the shock evident on his boyish features. Geralt felt foolish, exposed, and he cleared his throat as if to amend his words. But Jaskier smiled gratefully, and nodded.

Geralt ducked his head, and shuffled the dirt at his boots.

—————

It was an unseasonably cold night, and Jaskier was curled into a ball, covered in a second doublet, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

Geralt rose, and added another log to the fire. Jaskier smiled at him in thanks, but his trembling didn’t cease. The Witcher sighed, and thought that he’d never get some rest if his companion didn’t stop shivering like a newly born fawn.

And then he examined the thought, and realised it wasn’t _himself_ he was worried about.

He wanted Jaskier to be warm.

“Come here.” He grunted, attempting to sound non-committal, “It’s warmer if we huddle together.”

Jaskier hesitated, and Geralt felt an all-too familiar tug within him; rejection. Damn it, he should have kept his mouth shut. Of _course_ Jaskier wouldn’t want–

But the other man scooted over, all wide eyes; there was a question in them. _Is this okay? Do you mind?_

Geralt answered by rolling on his side, and pulling the bard’s back flush to his chest, enveloping him. “You’ll warm up quicker.” He felt the need to justify his actions, but oddly, Jaskier had immediately stopped trembling. The Witcher blinked in quiet wonder as the other man gradually began to relax, until he was asleep, using Geralt’s bicep as a pillow.

He stared at Jaskier for the best part of the night. Dozing in his arms like a kitten, completely trusting, absolutely relaxed. A monster cradling a fragile flower. The strange feeling within his chest began to unfurl, like rows and rows of prayer plants turning to find the light of the sun; he scarcely breathed, for fear of disturbing Jaskier. For fear of stunting the growing thing inside of him.

It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be why. And yet, Geralt let the first stirring of hope take root.

—————

Jaskier watched from the shore on the second day at the lake as Geralt hissed and cursed, drenched, muddied by the clay of the lakebed. They’d been fishing non-stop since they arrived – well, Geralt had, anyway – and although they’d turned up a delightful array of garbage and the occasional unlucky fish, they’d found no vessel. No djinn.

Jaskier had napped whilst Geralt continued the hunt, the net he’d constructed from rope hitting the water again and again with a splash. From time to time, he’d dive beneath the surface of the lake and search by hand. At one point, he got into a fight with a silt-crab that ended up roasted over the fire – less because Geralt wanted to eat it, and more because he wanted to prove some kind of dominance.

Towards the end of the second night, Jaskier tapped a fork against the metal of their cooking pot, a signal that Geralt should come and eat. The Witcher looked over his shoulder, a frenzy about him, and shook his head, growling. Jaskier sighed inaudibly, and tapped the pot again. Exasperated, the Witcher turned, and saw the other man holding up his pad, one word written out:

_‘Talk?’_

“We _can’t_ talk,” Geralt despaired, “That’s why we’re here, Jaskier. I promised you. It’s here, in this lake… somewhere. I _know_ it is.” A wave of fatigue hit him, and he waded from the water, slouching wetly to slop beside the bard.

_‘Medallion?’_ Jaskier wrote out. Geralt’s wince could not be disguised, and he knew Jaskier saw.

“It’s… not engaging, but that doesn’t mean anything. The vessel might be cloaked, or, or _something_.” He hated the frantic quality of his voice.

Jaskier reached over, and squeezed Geralt’s forearm. The Witcher looked so lost, so hopeless; he wasn’t the mute, and yet he was the one being comforted. It wasn’t right. _Nothing_ about this was right. He pulled his wet legs closer to his body as Jaskier wrote.

_‘It’s not here, Geralt.’_

Geralt wanted to take that page, ball it up, and huck it into the stupid lake for the fish to peck at. Tiredly, he rubbed his eyes, and fisted his fingers into his mud-streaked hair. Jaskier was right, and he hated that he was. “I… I know.” He eventually relented, so soft that it was barely audible.

Again, the scratch of charcoal. Geralt waited, and looked at the words written for him.

_'We tried, right? That’s all we could do. It’s okay.’_

“How can you think **any** of this is okay?” Geralt exploded, forcing himself to a stand, beginning to pace. “You gave me _everything_ , Jaskier. Fuck, you _still_ give me everything. And I don’t, I don’t really know _why._ I’m a monster! I’ve done horrible, awful things! Everything, everyone I touch – it all shrivels to black. You, you were whole and bright and _beautiful_ with song before you met me, and look. I took your fucking voice from you. Jaskier, you were the tallest dandelion in the field, and I came along like a foolish child and plucked you from the ground. How can you say it’s okay when all I’ve done is _take of you?_ ”

Jaskier was staring, his mouth agape. He wanted to write so many things. Wanted to press so many points just made. But Geralt was volatile, verging on something of emotional import. Carefully, he chose his next words to write:

_'You know, Geralt.’_

That made the Witcher stop. He blinked harshly at the script, curling and uncurling his hands, before his breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t cry – he’d been robbed of that human release long ago – but his eyes were shiny in the firelight as he caught Jaskier’s haunting aquamarine blues. “You can’t.” He muttered, “It– it makes no _sense._ Why would you lo–” He squeezed his eyes shut, “ _Like_ me, Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s expression was a marriage of exasperation and fondness. He simply shook his head, shuffled through the papers, and tapped one in particular:

_'Julian’._

“ **Fuck** that.” Geralt barked, snatching up the word. He didn’t ball it up, or throw it on the fire; he pressed it to his chest, the charcoal smearing against the damp still clinging there. “No. If you’re not Jaskier anymore, then, then I’m– _I’m_ not Geralt. If you won’t be Jaskier, I’m not Geralt of Rivia. I can’t be. I _won’t_. Not without you.”

A single tear slipped loose from the other man’s eyes, his wet lashes kissing his skin. One written word.

_'Why?’_

All of the air left Geralt’s lungs. The thing within him exploded into bloom; he felt the petals brush the hollow of him, felt the vines curl around his arteries, the shiver of new foliage as it settled into a once-empty place, fertile with promise. It had been simply waiting for the right seeds.

“Because I _love you_ , too.” Geralt blurted. He should have felt scared, or ashamed, or at least tried to push the bard away. But instead he felt light. He knelt before Jaskier, who was smiling. _Gods,_ he was beautiful in that moment; he’d known this the _whole time_. He’d carried this love for both of them. He’d waited for it to grow.

Heedless of the mud and wet, Jaskier threw himself at Geralt, his arms around the other man’s neck. The Witcher held him close, felt the warmth of him brand his skin, memorised the racing pattern of his heartbeat. He sank to the ground with his bard, and rocked with him, desperate to get impossibly closer, his face buried into the smooth skin of the other man’s neck. “I’m sorry,” He breathed, his gravel-voice drawn tight, “I’m _so sorry,_ I’m sorry. I _love you_ , I’m so _sorry._ ”

Jaskier began to pull away, and Geralt didn’t let him go far. Now he had the man in his grasp, he didn’t want to let go. With pleading gilded eyes, he watched his bard point to one of his own eyes, then the place that his heart shivered beneath the fine doublet he was wearing, and then to Geralt himself.

Geralt made a noise like a sob, cupping Jaskier’s face. The first kiss they shared was clumsy, born from emotion and bitter-sweetness, a clash of teeth and tongue. The second was more careful, a slow promise; _I am here, my love. **We** are here._

When they parted, Jaskier nosed Geralt’s leonine features lovingly, and reached for his pad.

_'What now?’_ He wrote.

“You have followed me for so long. I will follow _you._ Whatever you want to do; if you want to hunt the vampire, we’ll hunt her. If you want to seek a mage, we’ll find coin for every single one in this whole damnable world, I swear it. If you lead, I will follow you forever.” Geralt clasped Jaskier’s hands. The bard sniffed, and wiped at his face with his sleeve, leaving coal and mud in a streak.

After a time, he wrote again.

_'I’ve always wanted to go to the coast. See the ocean.’_

Geralt frowned, wondering why they were not to embark on a quest to get his voice back. The curiosity must have been obvious in his face, because Jaskier continued to write.

_'Vampire long gone. Mages can’t help or would have tried them first. Know you’re not stupid. If I have you now, I have everything.’_

“Forever,” Geralt promised, his voice cracking, “I’ll earn your love every single day for the rest of our lives, Jaskier. I swear it.”

Jaskier went to write; Geralt saw the _'J’,_ then the _'U’_ , and he stilled the bard’s hand.

“ **No.** You’re the dandelion I picked. Bard or not – you’re my _Jaskier._ ”

And the other man slowly grinned.

—————

At the seaside of Cidaris, some miles away from the outskirts of the city, there sat a cosy shack. It was obviously hand-built, but it was sturdy and sheltered from harsh elements. Various treasures dotted the porch; dried star-fish, shells, sea-glass worn smooth from years of travel. It wasn’t much of a grand estate, but it didn’t need to be.

Inside, it was warm; there was a big bed covered with cured furs. A hearth heated the rooms, stocked plentifully with wood. Two desks occupied one side of the space; one was littered with parchment and inks, and the other held more curious reagents; herbs and roots and vials of coloured liquids. There was an area to cook, and best of all, behind a partition of wood, there sat an enormous bath carved from stone.

The people of Cidaris gossiped sometimes about the two strange men that lived there; one, an author, well-published and highly regarded by Oxenfurt scholars. He signed his works using a pen-name: _J. A. Rivia._ The other man was strong, pale, and although he no longer wore the armour of his trade, his eyes gave his past away. They were grateful for him, if they were honest, because no monster dared to threaten Cidaris after he arrived.

They could often be found at the water’s edge, hand-in-hand. The smaller man wore a ring on his left hand, a thin silver band that featured a wolf’s tooth set into it in lieu of a pretty rock. The Witcher – if he could still be called that – wore a thick gold ring, engraved with flowers. Neither of them spoke much – not using words, but they gestured to one another in a language of their own making, and the bigger man laughed often, and loudly.

It was quiet, but it was _their_ peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @witchernonsense for drabble/general ramblings.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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